


My Sweetest Downfall

by LeapAngstily



Series: Search the Ground (for a bitter song) [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels always get in the way, Fuckbuddies gone bad, Kaká has no self-preservation skills, M/M, Monto has issues, Past Relationship(s), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:05:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kakà moves to Milan and leaves Cris behind, but neither can really move on. Riccardo has his own issues, which is probably the reason Kakà feels so drawn to him. Human relations are never quite as simple as you would hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Sweetest Downfall

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of Champions League being back, I bring you a (not so) little something inspired by December's Milan-Ajax fixture!  
> Sort of related to my [Christmas fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1101945), but should work just as well as a standalone.
> 
> Dedicated to my lovely roommate, because apparently I’ve managed to mess up her subconscious so badly she actually dreams of Kakà/Monto. I’m sorry, honey!

_”I love you so much. Please, never leave me.”  
  
“Never, I promise.”_  
  
  
  
Kakà does not think much of Riccardo when he first meets the newly appointed Milan captain.  
  
They have met before, of course, back when Riccardo was playing for Fiorentina and Kakà was yet to move to Madrid. They have faced each other on international duty as well, but Kakà never really paid much attention to him.  
  
So it is not surprising that upon his transfer back to Milan, Kakà cannot immediately see what it is in Riccardo that has made him the fastest player to be appointed as the captain of the most prestigious club in the world.  
  
Riccardo seems reserved, even shy, when he greets Kakà, welcomes him back. He pulls back to his own group almost immediately, letting Robinho take the charge of his old friend.  
  
However, there is something in those blue eyes when Kakà catches Riccardo looking at him over Bonera’s and Robinho’s shoulders. Something deeply unsettling, loneliness buried so deep only the most perceptive eye can catch it.  
  
It is the exactly same loneliness that grips Kakà’s own insides.  
  
The moment is gone before Kakà can really understand what he is seeing, and Riccardo is back talking to Bonera, laughter lighting up his whole face as the defender pinches his side playfully.  
  
He must have imagined it: his own feelings getting the best of him. He needs to get his act together, stop thinking about what he has lost and concentrate on what is right here.  
  
The sad blue eyes haunt him all the way back home.  
  
  
  
 _”You need to go. Just, stop worrying about me and do what you need to do.”  
  
Cris has always been the sensible one in their relationship. He has watched Kakà pining for his old club for more than a year, and he knows what needs to be done even before Kakà himself is ready to admit it.  
  
He is not happy at Madrid. Even Cris is not enough change that. Not anymore.  
  
“I don’t wanna leave you.”  
  
“You were never mine to have. Go back to Milan, concentrate on your family. Be happy.”  
  
The unshed tears glistering in Cris’s eyes break Kakà’s heart._  
  
  
  
The season starts horribly, for Kakà and for the team. Injuries, losses, tactical mistakes, managerial struggle – you name it, they have it.  
  
He can see Riccardo struggling under the pressure of the captaincy. The uncertainty and the feeling of responsibility oozes from his very being – the need to do everything better, to carry the whole team on his back, and the frustration when he fails to do it.  
  
Kakà can feel his pain because it is the same frustration he is fighting. He wants to take off some of Riccardo’s burden, to share the responsibility as the vice captain. Not one person should be put under such pressure, captain or not.  
  
But Riccardo sets his jaw, keeps his head held up in the dressing room, refuses the help offered to him. He is stubborn like that: a quality expected from the team captain, but also one that could lead into his downfall.  
  
So Kakà lets Riccardo keep his distance, instead taking the role of a default leader, the vocal one who can lend his power to others trough example and words.  
  
Anything he can do to make the team better, the captain’s burden lighter, even if Riccardo himself would not accept it. Anything to remove the sadness and loneliness from the pained eyes – the emotions more and more visible with every loss they suffer.  
  
Riccardo grudgingly takes his silent help, smart enough to understand that an open confrontation is the last option when the team is going through a bad patch.  
  
Kakà is the only one who sees the fatigue haunting him, the dark look that passes on his face when he thinks no one is looking, before the strong mask is back on, the dependable captain in the place of the lost boy hiding somewhere deep within.  
  
Kakà does not understand how deep the damage is before their second game against Ajax, when he finds Riccardo sobbing silently in the corridor during halftime, pulled into himself, looking impossibly small in the wide hallways of San Siro.  
  
He had seemed to be coping fine when he spoke to the team earlier, apologizing for his red card, acknowledging his responsibility for the dire situation. He had even managed to give them a half-hearted smile when Mario told him they would win this, and that he should have some faith in his teammates.  
  
Even Kakà had missed how much he was actually hurting, and he blames himself for not paying more attention as he stands there, taking in the collapsed form, the shaking shoulders, the silent gasps as Riccardo fights to pull himself together.  
  
For the first time Kakà realizes his help has not done any good at all – it has merely forced Riccardo to hold his emotions even closer to himself, hidden from view while the internal struggle continues.  
  
He does what he should have done from the beginning: he confronts Riccardo, lets him know he is not alone, ignoring the complaints, because no one should have to handle something like this alone.  
  
Riccardo lets out a strangled sound of protest when Kakà walks up to him and pulls him into his arms. He refuses to let go: instead he pulls Riccardo closer to his chest and waits patiently until he can feel him relaxing into the embrace.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident, so stop blaming yourself, okay?”  
  
Riccardo sniffles quietly against the front of Kakà’s jersey, the words making him tense up again. He refuses to look up, but his fingers on Kakà’s shoulders are clutching him almost painfully, hanging on to him.  
  
“You should be the captain. I’m a failure. I’ve ruined the club,” whispered words against his chest, so vehement and full of self-loathing, and Kakà can feel his heart breaking into tiny pieces. What is left of it, anyways.  
  
This is not what he wanted when he took the leader role – he never intended to break Riccardo like this, to ruin his self-esteem so far beyond repair.  
  
“Nonsense. You’re our captain. The best captain we could hope for. Never doubt that, Riccardo. Never.”  
  
At that moment Kakà decides he will do everything in his power to make Riccardo happy. To make that endless pool of sadness and loneliness just a bit easier to cross.  
  
He tangles his fingers into Riccardo’s hair, caresses the back of his neck until the sobs finally subside and the tears run out.  
  
The dark curls remind him of Cris – of the way his hair would stick up after a shower, before he had a chance to style it to his liking.  
  
Kakà always loved that side of Cris. The side only he was allowed to see.  
  
  
  
 _They make love on the last night before Kakà flies to Milan, Cris astride in his lap, entangled in an embrace neither of them wants to let go.  
  
Kakà never stops kissing Cris: his lips, his face, his ears, his neck. Everywhere he can reach from his position without letting go, without creating any more distance between them than absolutely necessary.  
  
He can taste the salty tears on Cris’s face. His own or his lover’s, he is not quite sure.  
  
They are not ready to let go, never will be, when Cris spills his seed between their bellies, muffling his desperate sobs against Kakà’s lips.  
  
The clenching of Cris’s body around his cock makes Kakà find his release as well, his hold on Cris’s hips so tight he will have ugly marks for days afterwards. Good, something to remember him by.  
  
“I don’t want you to go,” Cris whispers against his lips, and he sounds so broken that Kakà almost picks his phone and cancels the upcoming transfer right away.  
  
“I’ll still be yours. I’ll always be yours, no matter where I am,” he replies instead, kissing Cris’s lips shut before he can disagree. Lies, he knows, but they both need these lies at this moment more than the truth.  
  
Because the truth is too hard to handle._  
  
  
  
Kakà thought he could never get involved with any other man after Cris. He even made a promise to himself – he would treasure what he had with Cris, because what they had was a beautiful, one-of-a-kind type of experience.  
  
Cris was special, and if he could not have him, he would be more than happy to focus on his family and ignore whatever attraction he might feel for other men.  
  
Riccardo is nothing like Cris.  
  
He is reserved where Cris is open. He is aloof where Cris is responsive. He is quietly vulnerable where Cris is always so strong, even when he is crying his eyes out – he is Kakà’s rock, Kakà’s saviour, Kakà’s first and only love.  
  
And yet Kakà finds himself impossibly drawn to Riccardo, with all his edges and insecurities, with his cold demeanour and the weaknesses he keeps hidden in full view.  
  
“I don’t need you to love me,” Riccardo tells him after they have sex for the first time, in the empty dressing room after everyone else has gone home, Kakà pounding into Riccardo’s body from behind, mouthing the back of his neck, tasting the sweat on his skin.  
  
They never even kissed, too busy ridding each other of their clothes and releasing the leftover adrenaline from the earlier game.  
  
“I don’t need you to love me,” Riccardo repeats louder when Kakà does not answer, picking up their discarded clothes instead, trying to gather his thoughts, “Because I don’t love you. I could never love you.”  
  
Riccardo is nothing like Cris, because he does not seek love, relationship, or emotional connection. Does not need them. He has his own reasons for getting involved with Kakà – just like Kakà has his own reasons for getting involved with Riccardo.  
  
“I know. I could never love you either,” he finally replies, meeting Riccardo’s eyes, and at that moment there is nothing but honesty between them.  
  
Honesty, acceptance, and understanding Kakà thought he could never experience with anyone but Cris. Suddenly he is not so sure getting involved with Riccardo is such a good idea after all.  
  
Because for all their differences, Riccardo is still the closest reminder Kakà has of Cris in Milan. And that scares him.  
  
  
  
 _”I miss you,” Kakà tells Cris over Skype, laughing at his annoyed pout, “Stop making that face. I’m being serious here!”  
  
“You’ve only been gone for a week. Surely you’ve had better things to do than missing me.”  
  
“I miss you every moment,” he assures, a bitter smile rising on his lips involuntarily.  
  
He is enjoying his time in Milan, of course he is. Here he feels important, needed. He is expected to start games and make the difference. He may not be the same person he was back when he left Milan, his teammates and club staff are not the same either, but he still feels like he is finally home.  
  
Except Cris is still in Madrid, and that loss is almost more than he can take.  
  
“Stop saying that, you’re making me miss you too,” Cris huffs, crossing his arms in silent protest. He looks as miserable as Kakà is feeling.  
  
Why did they agree that ending their relationship was the right call, anyways?  
  
“Everyone must be loving you there. You’ll find someone else in no time,” Cris says wistfully, biting his lip in a nervous habit of his, not looking at the webcam.  
  
Lonely blue eyes flash in Kakà’s mind and he immediately feels terrible.  
  
“Nonsense, no one could ever replace you. I don’t need anyone here.”  
  
A sad smile crosses Cris’s face, “You say that now. But you always need someone. That’s why you were with me.”  
  
“I was with you because I loved you. Still do,” Kakà’s response is immediate, desperate to argue Cris’s words that always hit too close to home.  
  
“No, we were feeling lonely and lost in the new club. That’s why we clung to each other. We fell in love somewhere along the way,” Cris’s tone stays matter-of-fact as he studies his fingernails in feigned indifference.  
  
Somewhere along the way they stopped needing each other.  
  
Somewhere along the way they grew apart, even if the love still remains._  
  
  
  
Riccardo might be the most peculiar person Kakà has ever met.  
  
He hates to talk about himself unless it is absolutely necessary. He never asks about Kakà’s life either, and yet he seems to know everything going on with him.  
  
“I’m the captain. It’s my job,” he replies with a roll of eyes when Kakà mentions it, like the question is the stupidest he has ever heard.  
  
He finds out about Cris only a week into their involvement, accurately reading into Kakà’s reactions to an off-hand comment. He raises his eyebrows, purses his lips in disapproval, but then shrugs it off and opts not to bring up the topic again.  
  
Kakà is grateful at first, but as the time passes he starts to wonder whether Riccardo really is that unworried, if he really does not care that Kakà is still so hung up on Cris.  
  
“Why would I care? You’re not my boyfriend or anything,” Riccardo notes with a small shrug before he continues kissing his way down Kakà’s chest, pulling down his shorts and ghosting his lips over the half-hard cock.  
  
The cool breath on him makes Kakà jerk his hips unconsciously, his hands already grasping Riccardo’s hair, and he almost misses what the man says next.  
  
“Shouldn’t you be worrying what  _he_  would think about this?”  
  
Kakà pulls back immediately, pushes Riccardo away from him, tugging on his hair almost violently. He realizes what he has done only when he looks down to Riccardo’s face, meeting his eyes reluctantly.  
  
Riccardo is laughing quietly, a bitter laughter instead of an amused one. The loneliness is back in his eyes – cold, sad, blue eyes – and he runs his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp where Kakà’s fingers pulled too tight.  
  
“Hope he knows how lucky he is. To be loved so much.”  
  
His voice breaks a little, a dejected tone he does not quite manage to hide, which reminds Kakà that Riccardo is not nearly as emotionless as he lets out to others.  
  
Suddenly Kakà feels terrible for lashing out at him, when all he did was speak the truth. It is not Riccardo’s fault Kakà is still not over Cris, and it is definitely not his fault Kakà does not have the courage to tell the truth to Cris.  
  
The worst thing he can do to Riccardo is to push him away, because that is exactly what Riccardo expects of him. What he has been waiting for all along.  
  
“That’s all in the past now,” he whispers as he crouches down and collects Riccardo’s rigid form into his arms, “He’s not here. You are.”  
  
Riccardo snorts against his neck, but does not try to pull away, “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?”  
  
Yes he is, Kakà silently agrees. He is an idiot for not giving up on Cris. He is also an idiot for slowly letting himself grow attached to Riccardo – to this peculiar man he cannot even begin to understand.  
  
  
  
 _”It’s that captain of yours, isn’t it?”  
  
Cris knows him too well. Kakà had hoped he could keep the secret for as long as possible, even though he knew they would have to have this conversation sooner or later.  
  
He is not ready yet.  
  
“What’re you saying?” he fakes a laugh, glad Cris cannot see his face over the phone, “What about Monto?”  
  
“Don’t lie to me. I’m not stupid. People talk, and he’s just your type, isn’t he?”  
  
Cris’s voice is trembling even through his angry words, and Kakà feels like the most despicable person in existence. He cannot tell the truth, because that would mean he has lost Cris forever.  
  
“Stop listening what other people say. I’m still in love with you. Why would I need anyone else?” he pleads softly, desperate to make Cris believe him. He has to believe him, because his words are still mostly true.  
  
“We’re not together anymore, Ricky,” Cris snaps back immediately, the anger in his voice rising, “Just give it a rest and tell the truth!”  
  
“There’s nothing to tell!” Kakà insists vehemently, tears stinging his eyes before they finally fall down his cheeks. A part of him wishes Cris could see it, while another part is glad he cannot.  
  
“Fuck you, Ricky,” Cris scoffs at him in annoyance, but he is obviously forcing himself to calm down, “Can’t you just let me get on with my life?”  
  
Kakà does not know what to say, and he knows that the more the silence stretches, the surer Cris becomes that he is lying. Like there ever was any doubt.  
  
“Call me when you’re ready to be honest with me.”  
  
As Cris hangs up, Kakà breaks down and really cries for the first time since their breakup._  
  
  
  
It is only when Pazzini is back in full training that Kakà finds the missing piece of the puzzle that is Riccardo Montolivo.  
  
It is the way Riccardo’s eyes light up when he is with his childhood friend. It is the way he follows Pazzini with his gaze even when he is on the other side of the pitch. It is the easy way Riccardo leans his head on Pazzini’s shoulder to share an inside joke that makes his friend break out in laughter.  
  
It is the way the sadness diminishes from his eyes before it comes crashing back down even stronger when Pazzini’s attention is on something else than him.  
  
Finally Kakà understands why Riccardo could never love him. Why he seems so bitter wherever Cris comes up. He is jealous, not of Kakà but of the love he still holds for Cris. The type of love Riccardo has never received.  
  
How could anyone compete with two decades of unrequited feelings? How could anyone compete with a long lost dream that is such an intimate part of you?  
  
Kakà startles out of his thoughts when he realizes he really wanted to fight for Riccardo. Just for that one fleeting moment, he had wished he could be the one to fix the damage Pazzini has involuntarily, maybe even unknowingly, inflicted on his friend.  
  
But he cannot help Riccardo, because Riccardo could never accept his help. He is in so deep, so lost and scared and lonely that it hurts Kakà to even think about it.  
  
“Does Pazzini know?” he asks when they lie in Riccardo’s bed that night, catching their breaths, the soiled sheets piled between them. So close but still not touching.  
  
“About us? Of course not,” Riccardo bites out between his still erratic breaths and then counters, “Does Cristiano know?”  
  
“He’s— Probably guessed something’s going on,” the lie tastes bitter on his tongue, a lie meant more to himself than Riccardo, “But I didn’t mean that. Does Pazzini know you’re in love with him?”  
  
Riccardo sits up so fast he gets entangled in the sheets around him. A look of shock flashes on his face before he turns away from Kakà to hide the emotions he is unable to control at that moment.  
  
“What’re you saying? I’m not in love with Pazzo.”  
  
“I’m not your boyfriend, you don’t need to lie to me,” Kakà uses Riccardo’s own words against him on purpose. Only after the words are out of his mouth does he realize the echo of Cris’s pained accusations behind them.  
  
Riccardo gets up, the sheet still wrapped around his narrow hips, and makes his way to the drawer to get clean clothes.  
  
“I think you should leave,” his voice hitches at the end of the sentence and Kakà can see his shoulders shaking just slightly from the effort not to cry. Or maybe shout, Kakà is not sure.  
  
Kakà does not want to leave him, and the thought makes him feel guiltier than anything they have done until now – because until now it has been the emotion that made Cris so different from Riccardo.  
  
He leaves without saying another word.  
  
  
  
 _”It’s nothing serious, more like friends with benefits than anything else,” Kakà finally admits, sinking slightly under Cris’s scrutinizing gaze, “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”  
  
It is the first time they have met face to face after Kakà left Madrid. Has it really been a little more than half a year? On one hand it has felt like an eternity, on the other Kakà feels like it was only yesterday that he last embraced Cris.  
  
It feels weird, being back in Madrid. They will play Atletico tomorrow night, their last chance at redeeming the ongoing season.  
  
And here he is, sitting in Cris’s kitchen, trying to redeem his long lost relationship.  
  
“Does he know that? Or are you lying to him as well?” Cris’s words are biting, just as venomous as Kakà was expecting.  
  
“He does. I’m just a replacement for him, anyways. Just like he is to me,” Kakà does his best to keep his voice level, decidedly ignoring how much saying the words actually hurts.  
  
“Never pictured you as someone to have sex just for the sake of it,” Cris notes, but his voice is a bit softer now, “Thanks for telling me.”  
  
Kakà reaches out his hand over the table to caress Cris’s knuckles gently, “I could end it, you know. If you told me to.”  
  
“I’m not your boyfriend anymore: I don’t have a say in what you can or can’t do,” Cris laughs humourlessly, but he still turns his wrist to allow Kakà to intertwine their fingers.  
  
“It doesn’t have to be like that.”  
  
“We just spent half a year without meeting even once. Not the best basis for a relationship, is it?”  
  
Cris is right, he always is. Kakà is an idiot for even thinking otherwise.  
  
He still pulls Cris into a kiss as he is about to leave – a long, familiar kiss, full of love and longing and nostalgia. Cris tastes the same as always and he returns the kiss the exact same way Kakà remembers.  
  
The taste of tears on his tongue – someone is crying again.  
  
It is only when Kakà reluctantly pulls away that he realizes something is missing. That little something that used to make them so special for so long._  
  
  
  
Riccardo in sleeping with his head pillowed on Pazzini’s shoulder on the flight back to Milan.  
  
He had travelled to Madrid with the team despite his suspension, because everyone had agreed their captain needed to be with them when they fought for their place in the Champions League.  
  
They are holding hands, their fingers intertwined – a reminder to everyone of just how close they are.  
  
But the way Pazzini looks at Riccardo is nothing like the way Riccardo looks at him. It is gentle, caring, protective: the way someone might look at their younger brother, except even more intimate. A look of a man who would do anything for his friend.  
  
But still just a friend, and Kakà cannot decide whether he should be feeling angry or sorry for him.  
  
Riccardo catches up with him when they line to get their bags at the airport, bumping their shoulders together.  
  
“He’s probably guessed something’s going on,” he says softly, barely louder than a whisper, throwing Kakà’s own words back at him. He is not looking at Kakà, his eyes still fixed on his friend who is joking with Abate just a few meters away from them.  
  
The ghost of a smile gracing Riccardo’s lips is probably the saddest Kakà has ever seen, like he has given up for good. It makes Kakà want to protect him, to forever keep him away from harm’s way.  
  
He used to feel like this for Cris, before he realized Cris did not need his protection.  
  
The clock has reached early hours of morning before they arrive at Riccardo’s apartment, but neither of them is thinking of sleep.  
  
Riccardo pulls Kakà into his bedroom without much flourish, tugging at his shirt just enough that Kakà gets the message and pulls it off himself. Riccardo discards his own clothes with his back turned to him, his pale skin almost shining in the scarce light from the window.  
  
Kakà lets Riccardo push him down on the bed, does not complain when he unceremoniously goes down his body, pulls down his trousers, and licks his budding erection into full hardness.  
  
Kakà takes the lead after that: he pushes Riccardo down to the mattress, his face against the pillows and butt up in the air. They never look at each other when they have sex. It is easier like that, for both of them.  
  
Riccardo starts crying while Kakà prepares him, one slicked finger inside, then two. He hides his face into his hands – a desperate attempt to stop the tears from soiling the pillow covers.  
  
Kakà pushes into Riccardo in one fast thrust, deliberately harsh, less careful than he ever was with Cris. It is the only way he can tell Riccardo that he is here –  _stay with me, in this moment, let me make you forget, just for now_  – and Riccardo pushes back against him, welcoming the pain, the intrusion.  
  
If Riccardo whimpers out Pazzini’s name as he comes into the blankets piled under him, Kakà decides to ignore it in favour of his own release. He keeps thrusting into Riccardo until he has spent himself completely, his whole body shaking in effort to hold back his own sobs.  
  
Who he is crying for, Kakà is not sure anymore.  
  
He lays down next to Riccardo once he has discarded the used condom and cleaned up the mess on Riccardo’s body. He reaches his hand to smooth away the hair sticking to Riccardo’s forehead, a simple touch but still more than he usually dares.  
  
Riccardo is staring at the ceiling, still wide awake. He does not flinch at the touch, which is a little victory for Kakà.  
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
It is a question that should have been asked long ago, when Kakà first laid his hands on Riccardo.  
  
“I don’t know, you tell me.”  
  
Riccardo lets out an undignified snort and turns to his side, facing Kakà, his eyes filled with something akin to understanding, “You’re gonna regret it.”  
  
“I’ll take my chances,” he replies quietly and leans in to press his lips on Riccardo’s.  
  
It is the first time they have kissed. Riccardo’s lips remain unmoving under his, but he does not attempt to pull away and that is another victory for Kakà.  
  
The kiss tastes like sweat and tears, both of theirs.  
  
At that moment, Kakà can feel a spark of something: not love, not hope, not affection, but something that might be worth exploring nonetheless.  
  
  
  
 _”I still love you.”  
  
“You’d still choose him over me.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Cris.”_


End file.
